Leave The Soul Alone
by Maddie Rose
Summary: It's been three years since Elethea Ambrose lost her brother to the Hunger Games. Now, she will finds her loyalties tested, and a dangerous game being played. Elethea has a choice: to join the rebellion, or continue living under the Capitol's shadow. Her decision should be obvious, but if she joins, everyone she loves will be put at risk. Finnick/OC
1. Glass House

**Chapter One: Glass House**

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**A/N: Right so, first chapter is here! For those who have already read Dig Up The Bones, this is the sequel to that story. For those who haven't, you should understand this story without having read that, but it'll make more sense if you read the prequel first. Also, to any Forbidden Fruit readers, Storm will be making a few appearances throughout the story! I hope you enjoy this first chapter, please review and let me know what you think! **

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_"We deceive the world with lies_

_We hide behind the smiles_

_We can see the home of desperate hearts_

_The truth has fallen down_

_The illusion we've become_

_A fear we can't outrun_

_We're closing in our emptiness_

_We're broken."_

_- Glass House, Red_

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**Elethea's POV**

It's that time of year again. My first thought when confronted by the sun seeping through my blinds. I groan and open my eyes, pulling my pillow over my head and wishing I could just stay curled up in bed for the rest of my life. Unfortunately, I'm a Victor, and that means having responsibilities – something I didn't realise when I volunteered for the 69th Hunger Games at the age of fourteen.

I drag myself out of bed and trudge over to grab some nice clothes from my drawers. It's been five years since then, five years exactly. I'm now nineteen years old and supposedly an adult, although often I don't feel like it. I'm too reliant – on Finnick mainly, but on Mum as well…although she relies on me, too. I push aside Leon's death, brushing it away like cobwebs. It was years ago now. Dwelling on the past never brings anything good into the present.

"Elethea! Are you up?"

Mum's voice resonates through the house and I groan again when I hear footsteps down the corridor. I tug my shirt over my head but it catches around my chest, caused me to fumble about blindly and crash to the ground as my bedroom door opens. Unfortunately, it's not Mum who enters my room, but Finnick Odair. He grins down at me, watching as I scowl and straighten my shirt.

"Looking good, Elethea."

"Shut up," I snap without any real heat, pushing myself to my feet. I can't help but look at Finnick and think how bloody unfair it is. How can anyone be that good-looking? He's Finnick Odair – twenty-three years old and my everything. Friend, lover, protector. Of course, the Capitol can't know that. The only other people that _truly_ know are Mum, Annie and Mags.

Today, we're going to watch two more tributes, two innocent young kids, be sacrificed for the Capitol's greed. The thought makes me feel a little sick, but I've become somewhat numb to it. There's nothing I can do to stop it, so what's the point in getting upset about it? I've had to push my horror away. It's irrelevant. All that matters is training the tributes to prepare for what they're going to face.

Finnick is watching me closely. Over the years, he's seen how I've suffered, how I've wilted like a dying flower when we venture to the Capitol. I haven't told him about Hyperion. He's asked, but I've never replied. How could I tell him? I know Finnick would likely do something reckless, and then we'd both be in trouble. All I can do is remain strong and silent. I'm like marble now – unyielding and cold to the touch.

"We'd better get down there." Finnick's voice is grim. We're both thinking along the same lines, but we don't have a choice. We'd been naïve enough to think our suffering would end when our Games did. Unfortunately, things didn't turn out that way. Instead the suffering is drawn out, until the day we die. The thought makes me taste bile.

I examine myself in the mirror. The blouse clings tight to my curves while the skirt billows out around my knees. Five years ago, the girl in the mirror was barely five foot and still had traces of baby fat in her cheeks. I'll never exactly been considered the stick-thin type, but I'm gaunter than I once was. My cheekbones are high and my eyes look somewhat hollow. I nod, deciding I look appropriately Victor-like.

Finnick and I arrive and cross the stage, deliberately avoiding looking at all the potential tributes filing in before us. I smooth down my skirt with shaking hands. _Like lambs to the slaughter._ They don't know what they're in for. Telling them won't do enough. They actually have to experience the arena to make it real, and by then it's far too late. I take my seat and glance at Jehovah, who has been escort for District 4 since Finnick's Games. His hair is thinning and he looks older than ever.

I zone out when he crosses over to the microphone and starts speaking. I've heard this too many times. Instead I let my hand find Finnick's. He gives it a squeeze and I deliberately avoid eye contact, knowing that we can't draw attention from the cameras. But it's nice to have some semblance of comfort, something to cling onto. Finnick and I are in this together and it's so much better, yet so much crueller, than having to be in it alone.

"I volunteer."

My head snaps up. I hadn't even heard the girls' name being called out, but I watch curiously at the girl walking towards the stage. Everything about her is average. Average age, fifteen years old. Average height, average build. She's got a tanned complexion, dark eyes and dark hair. She lifts her head proudly as she examines Jehovah, and I see so much of myself in those haughty brown eyes.

"Imelda Beauregard."

She's a decent age at least. Of that, I'm grateful. We normally get older volunteers – my heart lurches to think that Leon was among the younger ones. Finnick and I were lucky in that both of us were only fourteen when we volunteered, yet both of us survived. Finnick did out of skill; for me it was just sheer luck. Jehovah calls out a boy's name – Conrad Edmore – but again, there's another volunteer. This one is a small boy from the thirteen-year-olds section with a shock of auburn fuzzy curls.

_Oh no, not a little one._

"Jacen Staunch."

The boy is a lot smaller than Leon, who had already undergone his growth spurt by the time he entered the Games. This little titch would be lucky to scrape five foot, and I share a concerned look with Finnick. Welcome to the 74th Hunger Games, indeed.

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**Finnick's POV **

"Look at them." I sit on the couch beside Elethea, who speaks in a low voice as she glances across at Imelda and Jacen. The two are over at the refreshment cart, their eyes wide as saucers. They've never seen this much food back home in District 4. Fish is a typical meal, but here on this train, they have a wide variety. It feels wrong. Giving them all these nice things before putting them to their deaths. I wonder if we'll have a survivor this year, but I'll need to look over the tapes of the other Districts' reapings before I can tell for sure.

"They're so young," I agree, knowing that Jacen in particular must remind Elethea painfully of her younger brother. I immediately change the subject, raising my voice to call out to the tributes. "Imelda, Jacen. Come here. There's something you should watch. Let's take a look at your competition."

Imelda rolls her eyes and Jacen bounds over as I flick the television on. All of us immediately lapse into silence as it starts to play, and I take note of Districts 1 and 2 – who will be our tributes' allies, if all goes according to plan. The boy from 1 is tall and lanky, with an arrogant smile. His district partner is blonde and pretty, and that's about all there is to be said about her. I know not to underestimate her though – Cashmere is blonde and pretty, and she's definitely a force to be reckoned with.

The pair from District 2 certainly look more ruthless. The boy is a tall, muscular brute. His district partner is no taller than Elethea, dark-haired and wild, but there's a vicious look about her face that reminds me of Elsa, the girl who killed Leon during the 71st Hunger Games. The rest of the tape goes uneventfully. The tributes from the lower districts are the usual – until we reach District 12.

"She volunteered?" Elethea throws me a disbelieving glance, and I know we're thinking the same thing. District 12 has _never_ had a volunteer. Ever. That alone is enough to make me take note of the sixteen-year-old girl from District 12 who volunteered to save her sister. She's got guts, that much is certain. I flick the TV off and turn to raise an eyebrow expectantly at my two wide-eyed tributes.

"So?"

Imelda just shrugs. "The usual, aren't they? Apart from the girl from 12, I guess."

"Do you know what to do during the bloodbath?" I ask, bracing myself for the ignorance that I'm blasted with every single year.

"You go and get yourself a weapon," Jacen states, displaying that exact ignorance that makes me wince. You'd think some of them would have a sense of self-preservation, but then again, they wouldn't have volunteered for the Games if they did. I sigh heavily, but Imelda steps in to correct him before I can.

"Don't be an idiot. That'll only get you killed. You run."

I'm impressed. It's been a while since a tribute displayed that kind of common sense. I think the last one was Dom, and that was five years ago during Elethea's own Games. I fold my arms over my chest and nod.

"Very good, Imelda. You're right. There's always time to get weapons off tributes later, but at the start, you're thinking about your own survival. The bloodbath is always the time during the Games where the most tributes die at once, so you have to be careful."

Imelda blinks in surprise, but then looks smug. I notice Elethea rolling her eyes at the younger girl's conceitedness. I can't help but watch her, my fellow mentor. I guess you could say we're in a relationship, but it's something we're trying to keep a secret from the Capitol. If there's anything they can use against you, you'll be certain that they'll try to find it. The train lurches and I realise we're slowing down, heralding our arrival in the Capitol. I take a deep breath.

"Make sure you're ready for the crowds, you two. We're arriving at the Capitol now, so prepare yourselves."

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I watch lazily as Elethea crosses over the window, pressing her fingers against the glass and looking out over the astounding sight that is the Capitol. I'm flopped on the bed, grateful for some downtime while our tributes are prepped for tonight's chariot rides. It's surprising to me, how a place of such cruelty and selfishness can amaze Elethea so. This is the place that took her brother from her, and yet, she never ceases to marvel at its beauty, while I marvel at hers.

"Come here."

Elethea turns from the window and rolls onto the bed beside me, curling up close and nuzzling at my neck. That's one of the innocent things she retains: her desire for physical contact. Not sex, not all the time, but mostly she just likes to be held, to be reminded that she's important to me. She rests her head on my chest while I lazily stroke her dark hair back from her face.

She overthinks. I can see it on her face, the way her expression has gone blank, but her eyes remain determined. She's thinking about the tributes, how far they'll make it. She thinks too much, and I guess that's probably part of the reason she gets so stressed. We will always be helpless. We can only guide them, but their fates don't rest in our hands. They rest in the Capitol's, and the Capitol is ruthless.

"I want to go home already," Elethea murmurs into my shirt. I completely understand her. It's not long each year that we spend at the Capitol, but even on the first day, it feels like a painful forever. I just want to go back to District 4 with the waves crashing onto the sand, the salt on my skin, Elethea's lips on mine…

But we can't. Not yet. We have to stay here and suffer first. The Capitol might act like they give us riches and favours for surviving their Games, but in truth, the Games never end. Not in your mind. Not when the Capitol continues to toy with you even after you've won. Elethea closes her eyes and tries to fall asleep and I watch her, remembering a naïve young girl a long time ago, and still wishing I could have saved her.


	2. Let It Burn

**Chapter Two: Let It Burn**

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**A/N: Wow, 7 reviews! Thanks so much! This chapter has gone up to M for sexual content. Don't forget to leave a review!**

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_Can you stand the pain?_

_How long will you hide your face?_

_How long will you be afraid?_

_Are you afraid?_

_Will you play this game?_

_Will you fight or will you walk away?_

_How long will you let it burn?_

_- Let It Burn, Red_

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**Elethea's POV **

"Counting?" I stare across the table at Cashmere, who is sipping her chai latte casually, oblivious to my disbelief. "You're saying that counting helps? But…counting what?"

We're stuck on the uncomfortable topic of prostitution, a misfortune that both of us share. I keep turning the glass of ice tea in my hands around and around. I've been playing at this game four years now, but that doesn't make it any more comfortable to talk about, even with another woman experiencing the same pain. Cashmere is much more adult about it than me. She can talk about it so openly, as if it doesn't affect her, as if her sleep isn't haunted at night…but I know it's just a brave façade on her part.

"Counting sheep generally helps me." Cashmere shrugs, slurping down the last of her chai latte. We're stuck on the particular subject of how we distract ourselves from the situations we're forced into. I close my eyes and hope it'll be quick. Cashmere, apparently, counts. "If I count thrusts it only brings me back to what's happening."

I can't help but shudder. How is Cashmere so blasé about the matter? I wish I had that kind of courage, but when Hyperion approached me and asked for a private meeting at his apartment tonight, I was filled with cold fear. Most Capitolian clients just want to be pleased, and I can do a good enough job of that. Hyperion's aim is to break me, through domination and humiliation. I'm still not sure if it's working, but it makes me afraid every time I have to subject myself to his degradation.

"Don't you count sheep when you're going to sleep?" I ask.

"Well, yes," Cashmere replies, flipping her blonde hair over her shoulder and speaking as though I questioned the obvious. "That's why it helps me to concentrate on counting sheep. I can pretend I'm in a more pleasant situation."

That's the problem. When I'm with Hyperion, I don't know if I can pretend I'm in a pleasant situation. I sigh heavily and nibble at my lip. I can take in Cashmere's words of wisdom, but I'm not sure whether they'll apply to me.

"Cashmere?" I turn to glance over my shoulder at a young brunette woman lingering in the doorway. I recognise her vaguely, and know her by name only – Storm Asterbury, escort for District 1. She's probably only a year or two older than me. I rake a hand through my hair, acknowledging that our discussion is at an end for now.

"I'll talk to you later," I murmur, pushing myself to my feet. I know what fate to resign myself to now, and it is most definitely not a pretty one.

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"Seven…eight…nine."

My eyes are screwed shut tightly as Hyperion pumps into me harshly, nails scratching at my skin, teeth leaving marks on my neck and shoulders. The words don't come out as brave as I imagine them emanating from Cashmere. They come out shaky and hoarse…_scared_. I'm disgusted by how utterly pathetic I am. Hyperion stops moving and I tense, afraid that he's going to hit me. I open my eyes to his puzzled expression.

"What are you doing?"

"Counting," I reply slowly, as though it could possibly be a trick question. Irritation flashes across Hyperion's face, and he flips me over onto my stomach.

"Then count in silence," he hisses.

I begin from ten, but Hyperion's violent thrusts ensure that each number is punctuated by a cry of pain. Why does he do it? How can he possibly gain such enjoyment from my pain, gain _sexual pleasure_ from it? I taste bile in my mouth but I swallow. He fists a hand in my hair and tugs harshly and I scream. Hyperion laughs huskily and I realise that I've stopped counting, that I was thinking about him instead.

"Fifteen…sixteen…seventeen…"

But they're not sheep in my head. They're the cannons of tributes falling in the arena and that thought combined with Hyperion's roughness makes me sob, tears splashing onto the sheets. He groans and collapses on top of me and I go completely still, as though being like a statue will convince him not to hurt me. I keep my face pressed into the sheets to muffle my sobs.

Hyperion draws away from me, flipping me onto my back and gripping my wrists tightly enough to bruise. I flinch, infuriated at the fact that I can't wipe away the tears that stain my cheeks. He just stares down at me with those horribly empty eyes, and smiles.

"I can't ever have children," I blurt out, without comprehending why. Do I really think that my confession will elicit _sympathy_ from Hyperion? The notion is ridiculous.

For a moment, something flashes across Hyperion's face. Not pity. More like surprise. As though he didn't know his humiliating, brutal violation of me during Leon's Games could result in something so drastic. Then he shrugs, flopping on his back and stretching himself out, clearly satisfied.

"I suppose that's a good thing. I had no intention of fathering any little Victor bastards by you."

It feels like he's slapped me across the face. I never expected him to care, but neither did I expect such a ruthless response. Stupidly, childishly, I wonder what it would have been like to have a child with Finnick. We're both very young, but in a few more years…no. I couldn't subject a child to the Games. That confusion weighs heavily upon me – do I want a child, or don't I? It'll never matter, because the decision was snatched out of my hands when I was only sixteen.

I glance across at Hyperion and I think how easy it would be to kill a monster like him in the arena. I imagine stabbing him in the face over and over again with a knife. It's horrendously gruesome, but also immensely satisfying. To free myself from the torment he brings. With that happy thought in mind, I grab my clothes and start tugging them on. I don't do this for him. I do this so my tributes stand a fighting chance, and because I have no other choice. The threat of Mum lingers constantly over my head.

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**Finnick's POV **

I hear the heels clicking through the apartment before I see Elethea. She's stumbling slightly, either drunk or just struggling to balance. Why is she so dressed up? Where has she been, and why is her lipstick smudged? She notices me but ignores me, heading into the bathroom and turning the light on. Pushing myself to my feet, I follow her, leaning in the doorway as she washes the make-up off her face. The proud, cold woman is gone and the frail girl I've known for years has taken her place.

"Elethea? It's nearly midnight."

"Sorry," she murmurs, letting black-stained cotton balls fall into the sink. Mascara drips down her cheeks like inky tears. "I didn't think that I would be gone for so long."

I can see it then, and it feels like I've been slapped in the face. Why didn't I notice sooner? The pieces of the puzzle have only just added up. I walk over to Elethea and catch her arm. As expected, she flinches away from the contact, blinking profusely and then staring questioningly up at me.

"Elethea, are you a courtesan?"

I think she will be shocked that I managed to guess, or blatantly deny it. Instead she tilts her head to the side while working her glossy black hair out of its ponytail. She shrugs her shoulders neatly.

"Yes. So are you, though."

I wonder how long she's been doing this, because I can remember it for the past few years. She's young, but I was only sixteen. A memory comes flooding back, a very unwelcome and horrific one – the night I found out that Elethea had been raped. There's no doubt in my mind whatsoever that it was one of her clients, and now that I'm certain of what she is, I'm determined to find out who he was. I grip her shoulders and pull her close, but this time she doesn't flinch away.

"That night I found you in the bathroom…Elethea, who did that to you?"

She turns away and walks out of the bathroom, but again I pursue her. To me, this conversation is never over until I can find out who hurt her in such a way that she couldn't have children. The sick bastard will pay for it, I don't care if he's a powerful man of the Capitol. I catch her wrist, but she tugs away from me.

"Leave it, Finnick."

"Why should I?" I respond fiercely, watching as she bends down to tug off her heels and toss them aside. I sigh and lower my voice, not wanting to wake the tributes. This isn't something that needs to concern them. It concerns Elethea and since I was the one to find her that fateful day, it concerns me now too. "You got hurt. No one should have hurt you that badly, not even a client. It's not justified."

Elethea sighs heavily and closes her eyes. I bet she's counting to ten in her head, fighting back that fire of hers. She doesn't want to lose her temper at me, but she's on the verge of doing so. When her eyes snap open, they're impatient. Frustrated. Waiting for me to understand that this isn't worth the fight. Yet to me, she's worth everything. We might be complicated, what we are might not even have a name…but I love Elethea, and I can't protect her if she won't let me.

"I can take care of myself," Elethea states fiercely. I don't doubt that for a second. But the problem is that she's not. She's letting people take advantage of her and that's the saddest part of all. It's time like this that I wish I could be Haymitch and drink away my sorrows. Hell, sometimes I do. But it only does more bad than good. I only end up with a hangover. The relief is temporary, and I need something more permanent.

"You can, but you don't." I throw my hands up in frustration. "Look, I understand that it's humiliating and that it's private, but I was there afterwards, El. I saw the state you were in. That's something that's just not okay. I get the feeling that sometimes that's where your mind's at. Instead of with training the tributes, it's back in that dark place."

"Are you saying that I'm lapsing in my duties?" Elethea inquires, stepping forward and folding her arms over her chest. I groan, realising that I've pissed her off. I didn't mean to insinuate that I was doing all the work with Jacen and Imelda, but unfortunately it came out that way.

"I didn't mean it like that."

"Then what did you mean?" Elethea demands, her eyes narrowing. "Do you think it's what happened with Dom that's affecting me still? Or maybe what happened with Leon? I've lost count of the things that have happened with people."

I want to remind her that I've lost people too, that she's not the only one. But it would sound harsh, so I don't. I have to be the voice of reason, because I'm the older one, the one who's expected to keep it together no matter what. I need to be here to hold her close and tell her everything will be alright, even if deep inside, I know that's not the case.

"Elethea, I wasn't trying to insult you." I hold my hands up as if in surrender. "I think you should just get some sleep. We can talk more about this in the morning."

"I don't ever want to talk about this again," Elethea throws over her shoulder as she stalks down the hall, slamming the door shut to her room.


End file.
